


After The Dragon

by LemonsandPie



Series: Fools Rush In [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awkwardness, Bittersweet, F/M, Interspecies Awkwardness, Love Confessions, Multi, Multiple Wardens (Dragon Age), No Sex, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 14:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15708906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonsandPie/pseuds/LemonsandPie
Summary: He knew this journey was going to come to an end, but he hadn't realized what that all entailed.The dragon falls, and so too does the Warden.





	After The Dragon

He waits until the dust settles.

He does not rush forward like Alistair, without care or thought, aimlessly running into what could very well be an ambush. His sense of control is too ironclad for such reckless abandon. Alistair needs to be more responsible, he will be king of this foolish nation soon, he cannot risk his life so carelessly. Not with the price it was paid.

He does not retreat like Zevran either: back rigid, mouth thinned, and eyes wet. No doubt the elf is running off to find their healer amidst the fray. His efforts are for naught, the severity of their wounds will be beyond the mage’s scope of expertise (unless she resorts to _that_ forbidden knowledge), and he slightly condemns the man for even thinking of pulling a major factor in the recovery effort for something so pointless.

He understands both of them—had he been a lesser man and let emotion rule him, he might have even _joined_ them—but it is futile.

So, he will wait until the dust clears, a fixed point in the middle of an eerily quiet battlefield as the two other parties disappear from his senses.

The world glows golden with the setting of the sun.

When the fog dissipates, finally—for what seems like ages—the first thing he sees is the mighty Archdemon laid out before the world, guts spilling out onto the cracked battlements of Fort Drakon, blood oozing in great black rivers of Taint. Asala, his soul, is embedded in the beast’s head, buried to the hilt, deep enough that he can see some of the gray matter of the brain through the wide fissure. It's cold reptilian eyes are glazed over and look skyward, cruelly fanged maw open, with a glint of Asala’s blade pinning the tongue down.

He has yet to find the last person to wield it.

Searching, he spots a figure not too far from the beast.

Nearby one of its paws, hand curved over a black claw as big as a longsword, lies Xiandi Surana. In the fight, one of her elaborately braided buns must have unspooled with her efforts, and fans out onto the ground in dark waves. Her shimmering robes are torn around her shoulder, a mess of red that runs sluggishly, likely from the claw she's pushing back. Her staff is broken in two, residual magic flickering from the lyrium based core in pink sparks. Her eyes are closed, and for that he's thankful.

He does not want to see the last moments of fear in them.

The cry he hears is not quite human, and chills him to his core. He spins around hefting Starfang from her point at ease, the greatsword glittering in the dying light, and expects to see an Arcane Horror or a demon of Pride.

Instead, he sees Alistair beneath a ruined arch clutching Lady Cousland to his chest.

Even in death she is every ounce of an aristocrat, not a hair out of place, armor—though blood stained—is whole and gleaming in the soft glow of the sun. A warrior Queen, truly. Her face is proud and pale underneath Alistair’s shaking gauntleted hand, her eyes too blissfully closed. The raw emotion of the boy-king’s face, the gentle rocking he has set for them both, leaves Sten to look elsewhere. Theirs is a private moment, and he will respect their relationship and honor her memory by not staring at the scene like some slack jawed waif.

The one he is looking for is not there either it seems.

He moves finally, walking past Xiandi’s body for it is nothing but a shell as she has gone elsewhere, and gently wrestles Asala from her resting place. Taking special care of the Taint, he wipes the runed blue steel blade clean, and moves on, settling the blade home in the scabbard at his back.

He scours the rubble, moving rough granite stones with his bare hands, Alistair’s sobbing a gentle lull in the background. He takes great care not to be louder than strictly necessary, he does not want to disturb the man's grieving process even though it makes his own mission harder, and for a moment he has to calm his mind as he fights a wave of sudden panic that there might not be anything _left._

She is... _was_ so very small.

It feels like hours have gone by, and he has turned over every bit of stone he could find in the ruined keep, but still he has not found her. Alistair’s sobs have finally fallen silent, and the man looks forward, eyes empty, still holding on to his lover.

The sky turns from soft golds and pinks to a blood red.

The rest of their party has filtered in sans the Swamp Witch who had fled to her Wilds once her plan had been rejected. He hates her cowardice at not attending the aftermath, choosing instead to flee, but it's not lasting.

She has her reasons, of this he is sure.

Wynn, with an anxious Zevran in tow, is the first to arrive. She runs to Xiandi, casting whatever healing magic she can spare for the other's present here, and slides to an impressive stop at her apprentice’s side. Zevran had asked if there was anything the senior spellcaster could do, but she just shook her head, mouth covered by a pale hand, tears flowing freely.

Leliana is next, the Chantry lay-sister’s face changing from tired victory to unbelief to horror to resigned grief and pity in the course of a few seconds. She looks at him, a question passing between them unsaid, and starts searching as well. Her hands are smaller than his, more delicate, less suited for the task, but he appreciates the effort all the same as he feels his strength waning. His other Kadan, Shale, would probably not be able to help until much later. She'd most likely still be helping the troops who are fighting Darkspawn stragglers under Oghren’s command.

It isn't until twilight has finally settled in, and the very last of the sun's rays has dipped below the horizon, that he spots a hand. Nearly 100 yards away from the Archdemon, half buried under the Stone she’d worshipped all her life, rests Harlow Brosca. The impact crater around her suggests she'd been thrown by the creature, the torn armor— _Leske’s armor_ —around her middle further implies she'd finished the beast off while in its jaws.

A Hero’s death.

There is no greater honor.

She went to her destiny without shame.

Her eyes, unfortunately, are open.

 

* * *

* * *

 

"Hey, um, do you mind if I, uh, sleep with you tonight?”

He'd been reading a book Wynn had given him about Fereldan folk tales, and was halfway through what he suspected was a fable about patience through the form of sheep, when he'd heard her faltering request from the doorway. They were at the royal palace spending their night before the final battle in luxury that he was uncomfortable indulging in. Ferelden was not known for its excess, it wasn't Orlais after all, but the sense of proprietary the upper class had over opulence left him longing for the Qun’s simplicity. Such socioeconomic divisions always led to strife and imbalance in a society, as seen throughout this nation. Honestly, was it really any wonder, _truly,_ that they'd been so easily ensnared by Loghain’s treachery when they'd lived as such? But, he doubted his Kadan would appreciate politics so late in the night…

Her request itself was enough to give him pause.

Not that they hadn't slept together in the past.

There had been her time of mourning her own Kadan, her Salroka as she'd called him, Leske. She'd been overly stressed, listless, and the problem had been rectified once she'd found comfort in not being alone in her nightmares. There'd also been the time he was poisoned looking for Asala, and she'd stayed with him through the week when he'd been afflicted by fever dreams and worse. The point was that, it was not entirely unusual for them to seek one another out in moments of weakness where they could rely on the other's strength.

However, what was odd was that she'd been downright optimistic before they'd parted ways for sleep, and so she had seemingly not needed his attention. What had happened in such a short amount of time to rattle her so?

Putting a marker in his book, and blowing out the candle, he motioned for her to come to bed. She all but ran to him, lifting up her nightgown (and that was another oddity, but one he wouldn't dwell on for politeness sake) so she wouldn't trip over its long hem, and slid underneath the covers. He'd sank down into the mattress as well, and turned over so they were back to back, the solidity of the muscle reassuring to both parties.

He wondered if the colloquialism of “having someone's back” came from this reassurance.

“Sleep well, Kadan,” he’d rumbled into the stillness of the night. He’d already shut his eyes, closing out the last bits of soft moonlight that filtered in through his window. “You will need your strength for tomorrow.”

And that had been that. He hadn't really expected a full response other than the hummed affirmative she gave him, knowing how late the hour was. He’d figured she came to his bed out of nervousness in finally having to slay the Archdemon.

It was why her question, asked so softly he wasn't sure if it was rhetorical or not, bothered him.

“Would you mourn me?” He felt her shift, making a gap between their bodies, and he knew from the lack of physical contact that it meant she was serious. “If I died… Would you mourn me?”

It was an odd question, but one he could answer easy enough. Even though the subject matter was… grim for bedtime.

“We do not mourn our dead. The body is but a shell, a vessel for the soul. The soul is in your actions, who you were, what you've done. I am a Sten of the Beresaad, vanguard of the Antaam. My sword is my purpose as a soldier. So, it is Asala, my soul.”

“... I see…” She sighed, and hunched further in on herself, away from him. He felt a tightness in his chest as he thought about his next words carefully and found it uncomfortable to breathe around.

Battle was always a little unpredictable, too many variables to keep in order. The loss of life should always be considered one of the possible outcomes of such conflict. He was no stranger to these notions, it was what he'd been selected and raised to understand.

War was his world.

But, the thought of him having to watch _her_ die…

He rolled over so he was on his back, his bare shoulder knocking against her curved clothed spine, closing the distance some. He only gave her a passing glance to make sure she was still conscious. He would not be repeating these words again.

They were… _too_ personal.

Telling.

“We do not mourn our dead, this is true,” he spoke to the ceiling. “But we do honor their memory, not in tales or songs, or memorials and effigies, but in what they did. They become our words, our language. Viddasala, the one who converts purpose. Arvaarad, the one who holds back evil. Koslun, the energy that binds us all—the living element. What makes us strong; togetherness.”

He could not help but think of his slain brethren in this moment. Had it really been a year since they'd gotten ambushed on the outskirts of Lothering by darkspawn, and himself left to atone for his sins by massacring the people who only wanted to help?

He sighed, a habit he himself had formed in this strange land, resting a hand on his stomach. “When a Qunari dies, we take their souls and give them purpose again. A tome goes to the priesthood, shears to a herder, a sword to a soldier. In this way, they are not forgotten. They remain with us together, forever. Eternal.”

She rolled over then, sensing either the finality in his statements or perhaps his own embarrassment, he was not sure. She waited patiently as he fought himself, struggled to admit a truth. In the end, he let his cowardice win again, and gave her a modified version.

Not meeting her eyes, but careful not to give away too much, he murmured: “But to answer your question, Kadan, if you were to ever fall… I would make two requests. First, I would ask of your sister, Queen Rica of Orzammar, to bequeath your war hammer to me. And,” he faltered, feeling his face heat up. He struggled to give voice to even this partial truth, and only relented when he felt her cheek rub against the round of his bicep, skin to skin. “And two, I would ask that Asala be entombed in your grave.”

Silence settled over them like a fog, and he felt too hot underneath the thin sheets wrapped around his middle. He refused to fidget as the quiet stretched on, but he felt like his skin would burst if she didn't say something soon. He couldn't even slip out of the room without crossing in front of her side. Where would he even go? What excuse would even be remotely feasible at this late hour? Would it be considered a retreat or a tactical diversion?

Harlow's sudden burst of laughter made his heart almost stop.

“Sorry, sorry,” she laughed between her cupped hands, snorting. “It's just… We spent how many fucking months trying to find the damn thing? It seems sort of funny that you'd just get rid of it so fast.” Her laughs died down to breathless giggles, and she looked up at him, eyes glittering. She rested her cheek against his bicep again, the brand lightly scraping against his skin. “But, that's really sweet. Thank you. Psh, better than a ring…”

And then she was rolling on top of him trying to suffocate him with a pillow.

“Parshaara woman! What are you trying to do?” He was trying to throw her off him, but the angle was all wrong. She was just a flurry of limbs at this point.

“You weren't supposed to hear that!” Her face was redder than an apple, as she smashed the pillow over his face. “It was so cheesy, too much cheese!”

“What do dairy products have to do with _anything_? Teth a! _Enough!_ ” It was her nightgown that was her undoing, and he pulled the excess material to get her off him. The pillow was ripped out of her hands next, and he grabbed the scruff of her collar when she tried to flee. “Now what,” he growled, eyes narrowing. “Was I not supposed to hear that would cause you to attack me so?”

“I'm going to die tomorrow!” His grip went slack at her admittance and change of topic. She covered her face with her hand, hiding. “I'm… going to die tomorrow. In the final battle…”

“Why?” _How?_ He wanted to ask, because if he knew how he could prevent it. But, if it was just fears about the battle to be… She let her hand hang away from her face, giving him direct eye contact.

“Riordan told us, woke us out of a _sleep_ to tell us this.” He nodded his head, knowing the gravity of the action. The Wardens barely slept with their night terrors, and as such were absolute terrors to wake up in the morning. It was better to let, as the Qunari saying went, sleeping dragons lie. He supposed that it was fortunate for their order to have the excess stamina they touted since sleep was so elusive. Regardless, for a fellow Warden to wake up his brothers and sisters-in-arms meant a lot. She paused, scratching at her brand. Nervous.

“I'm not,” she blushed, worrying her lip as she followed the steady rise and fall of his bare chest. “I'm not squishing you, am I? I realize I'm sort of… on your diaphragm? I think…?”

“It's fine.” She was stalling, a habit admits a sea of habits, and one he had no patience for. Besides, he did not know why her straddling him made her nervous. It was a position she was in often enough that it was hardly even intimate anymore, what with the way she sparred. Was it his nudity? But she'd seen him shirtless countless times…

And then some.

He was still irritated by _that_ particular quest.

“Right, well,” she sighed and tried to steady herself, placing her hands palms down on his chest to center herself on his person. He was almost too wide around for her to properly sit on him. “It's supposed to be another Warden secret, but I say to Void with that. No more secrets between us. We've been… _You_ have a right to know. We're supposed to… When you become a Warden, you have to take some of the Taint into yourself. That's how we're able to know when darkspawn are going to ambush us. We… feel them; we're connected. So, in order to kill an Archdemon, a Warden has to tie the beast to their Taint; and, well… it's a one-way ticket to the Ancestors…”

“So, it is fatal, then?” He was… He could not put his feelings into words. There was that tight feeling in his chest again, and it irked him that he could do nothing more.

“Just about...” She let out a half-swallowed laugh, and rubbed at her nose, a tell meaning she was sorry. He did not know what for. “I knew this job would be the death of me…”

She was trying to go for light-heartedness, but the words felt jilted and fear touched. He doubted she even realized she was shaking during the explanation, and Harlow was not a woman to frighten easily. But, never once did she say she would shirk off her responsibilities. For all her grandstanding and childishness, Harlow Brosca was honorable to her core.

“Tell me how to help you and I will,” he knew she appreciated touch and he himself action. So, he settled on rubbing her legs in lazy strokes to soothe her. It was the only thing he could think of, little touches to ground her. “We do this together, Kadan.”

He felt some of the tightness lift as she gave him a wiry smile.

“I don't know if I'll be walking away from this one,” she touched his hand on her calf, thankful. “But, you know me. If there's a loophole, I'll find it.”

“And probably have us all look like fools in the process… I still haven't forgiven you about Haven…”

“By the Stone!” She roared with laughter, and then, remembering where they were and what time it was, clapped a hand over her mouth, smothering her peals of laughter into pleased hisses. “I-I-I assure you the clothes part was not my doing! _Honest._ ”

“I have my doubts…”

“ _Sten!_ You _wound_ me!”

“Ah,” he leaned back on the headboard, so he could properly look up to talk with her. He doubted that they'd be getting any sleep soon, not with how cheerful she looked now. He might as well be comfortable. At least now, she did not look so dire. “Now it makes sense. So that is why you sought out my companionship tonight. For comfort.”

“Yeahhhh,” she looked away, very interested in the door suddenly. She was biting her lip again. Nervous. “Comfort was part of the plan…”

“Part?” When she did not elaborate, and leaned away from him, he stopped his stroking. He'd felt the muscles in her thighs spasm around him. Tense. The tight feeling in his chest returned. “Kadan, is there something el—”

“ _Sten._ ” Rarely does she use a commanding tone with him. In the beginning when he, shamefully, questioned her mettle in battle, she'd voice her orders in that tone, barked them at him like he was a child. He'd thought the tonality was a sign of her inability to control her emotions, her rage giving a bite to her words. That was not the case.

The words, when he truly listened to them, stopped treating the clipped syllables like a form of punishment to begrudge, were ones of learning. They were words meant for listening.

Harlow Brosca, due to her casteless status and previous criminal history, was used to being ignored—relied upon being unnoticed as a means to an end. Used her flippancy and friendliness to put others at ease, another mask to hide behind.

And she was good at what she did.

Had she converted to the Qun, she would have been sorted into the Ben-Hassrath and made Hisraad, Keeper of Illusions. Lie-smith.

Spy.

But she was not Qunari, though she _is_ Kadan, and the words are for peeling back the shadows and showing the truth underneath.

He sat up fully to show he was listening in earnest.

“Yes?” She breathed out a sigh and her eyes dropped to his lips.

“What does Kadan mean?” She has not questioned him before about the matter, but he knew she would question him eventually. Though his insides squirm at the thought of maybe telling her the _truth,_ his cowardice moves his traitorous mouth instead to say:

“It means, where the heart lies. A person of importance.” _Someone you love._

The room is unnaturally silent, and it sets his nerves on edge. He's all too aware of the gentle press of the bedding against his back, and the silken smoothness of her sleeping clothes against his palms, the way her calloused hands graze his stomach, her warm breath in little airy pants.

Her dark, dark eyes that twinkle like starlight.

And he doesn't know why it's _her_.

This Dwarven woman plucked from the depths of Orzammar, rough and despised. Who, despite all evidence to the contrary, through methods so unorthodox he still remained perplexed, managed to coax an army out of the dying embers of her order's hopes. Who continued to be kind and generous even to those who shunned her. A woman warrior, an amateur commander, a walking contradiction.

She was incorrigible.

A menace.

Why was she coming closer?

“Kadan?” She didn't answer just leaned up and held his head between her rough palms, eyebrows drawn down in determination.

“I'm going to die tomorrow. Probably.” She bit her lip and crowded closer. He was mesmerized by the way her brand seemed to light up with her blushing. “Painfully most likely, but hopefully not pissing myself. Sorry… I'm not good at— _barzûlegûr_ —I,” her breath stuttered out, cheeks on fire, but drew her face closer so their foreheads touched, burying her hands in his unbraided hair. “I am _not_ fucking dying without doing _this_.”

And she kissed him.

Poured herself into the action like she could taste victory on his lips. His hands spasmed around her thighs, tightening to the point of bruises, and whatever sounds she made were swallowed up by the union of them. He pulled her forward as he leaned up, hands sliding home to the bend in her waist.

And that was what she felt like.

Home.

Her laughter warm like the humid winds of his homeland, scent sweet like the fruits that dangled rich from the vines. Her body both pliant and unyielding not unlike the sea, shifting from placid to tremulous with the breeze. She was a many faceted wonder to behold, and he was beholden.

He broke the kiss with another, shorter and more controlled. Kissed her small scar near the crook of her mouth. Underneath the round of her jaw. The hollow of her neck. Her left breast where her heart lied.

She combed through his hair, kissed his crown, and he felt the ghost of her smile when his last kiss turned ticklish.

There was a moment, he knew, that he could push the line between them, and she'd be willing to allow it. He could lay her down, and crawl on top of her, and they could watch the sunrise. They could press their chests together to match their heartbeats, backs apart for once, and _finally_ _move as one_.

There was a moment he saw when he looked up in her dark, dark eyes.

He could have seized that moment.

But instead, he twined their fingers together and he pulled her to his chest, cradled her against himself. She went without resistance, moved in a way that kept their hands firmly together, and he felt her eyelashes flutter over his skin, a leg arched over his hip. It felt most natural, as natural as Asala being an extension of himself.

He mused that perhaps this was why the Qun forbid such bonds between Kadans to grow so deep.

He'd level nations to keep her safe.

He must have tightened his grip on her unconsciously, or maybe she could sense his mood, for she kissed his temple till dark thoughts slid away from his mind.

“I'm sorry.” It wasn't so much an apology for his state of being, but rather to her plight, the what-could-have-beens, the history of them, his own inability to say what he meant. What she should have always known from the beginning, when the first of the warm feelings bloomed in his chest. She nodded into his neck, and he wondered if she knew that he could feel the wetness of her eyes.

“It's fine,” she rasped, voice not unlike the rattling winds that scraped against the white towers of Akhaaz during the dry season. “Just… let me have this one night.”

And there weren't any more words to be shared, he just simply held her as she cried. Held her as her heart bled itself dry for her impending duty. Held her so she wasn't alone in this. She had never been alone in this.

Two lost souls in a foreign land.

And for once, he wondered the fairness of the world and why there was struggle to begin with.

 

* * *

* * *

 

He thinks he should have seen this a long time coming.

She was entirely too reckless to have ever made it out of this war unscathed.

Leliana makes a pained sound not quite unlike a startled hen and cups her stomach and her mouth like she's about to vomit, tears making dark streams of makeup down her face. After several minutes, she presses a hand to his shoulder, and on any other day he'd be irritated in the gesture of unfounded camaraderie, but at the moment he simply cannot bring himself to care.

“I am so _so_ sorry Sten.”

The words, like most of southern Thedas, are meaningless and obvious. But he…

He…

“But not as sorry as I… “

“ _Oh_ , _Sten.”_  He rises on stiff legs, his bad knee creaking slightly, and takes Asala from her place at his back. He's moved most of the debris from around Harlow, staunched some of the bleeding, cleaned her face, closed her eyes. If it wasn't for the gash in her armor and the stillness of her chest, he could lie to himself and believe she is sleeping. That she'd just taken, in pure Harlow fashion, a power nap to recover her stamina from being a berserker.

But in the Qun, he must see the truth of the world, even if he does not wish to.

So, he places his soul with his other soul, the blade across the length of her, the tip past her boots, and clutches her too limp hands around the hilt, pommel centered with her chin.

It is a warrior's burial positioning for a warrior's death.

Next to her, lies her weapon Daisy, a two handed warhammer of Dwarven design. The only thing she had from before, she had said once in a smoky corner of Tapsters Tavern when they'd visited her sister. Before the earthquakes had taken everything away from her, collapsed her world in so many ways.

He takes Daisy and straps her to his back, feeling both heavier and lighter and nothing at all. Like the Void has hollowed him out and replaced his blood with ash. Like he’ll never be whole again.

“You have honored me, Harlow Brosca.” He says to her corpse, but his eyes look elsewhere. _I hope I honored you,_ goes unsaid.

He turns, because there is not much else to say or do here. There is nothing else to keep him here; his mission is complete.

And he has a report to take.

 

* * *

* * *

 

"Well the ways I sees it, you got two options,” Sten does not care for this tiny elf in front of him, who's missing more teeth than an elderly aardvark. He smells of salt and scams, and if the elf so much as touches his person he shall be missing his other hand as well. Either he is brave or stupid, or both, Sten is not sure, but the man smiles unperturbed by the irate Qunari.

“Elaborate, elf.”

It's been a week since the Battle of the Fifth Blight, and he stands on the ramshackle docks of Amaranthine, trying to find passage to Seheron in one piece. He… tries not to think about the battle.

“The ways I _sees_ it,” the man continues. “Rude thing you, is that you need my master's ship a lot more than we need your coin. So, considering I'm in such a good mood on account of not being eaten by darkspawn and all, Maker be praised, I might be able to get you on board if you don't mind paying an _advanced_ fee.”

Of course, it was always avarice with these people.

He crosses his arms, irritated with the other man’s stalling. And his breath. _Vashedan_ , it was like the Southern half didn't understand the importance of good oral hygiene.

Or, hygiene in general.

He needed to get out of here.

“How much, elf?”

“Welllllll,” the man scratches his bony chin with his good hand and makes a face like he’s doing advanced mathematics in his mind. “Considering your height and… _prickly_ personality _._ Plus, how much it's going to cost to feed your oxen ass—” the man takes a step back when Sten unsheathes both Starfang and Daisy “—But, considering how you're most likely a refugee and I'm so kind...I was thinking a hundred and twenty sovereigns?”

It’s twice as much as the ride had cost the first time, but coin is meaningless to him. He tosses the elf a bag of coin, more than enough, and stalks off up the gangplank with a growled, “Have my accommodations met and relative peace on my journey, and you can keep the whole purse, elf.”

He brushes past the other passengers on the ship, putting as much distance as he can between them, and looks over the rail. This is potentially the last time he will see Ferelden. Next time he lands on these shores, if there is a next time, he might come back as an enemy. The nation is… not as pointless as he once believed.

“HEY! HEYYYYY!”

“The hell is that?” He hears one of the passengers ask another as the gangplank is pulled up, and the anchor raises.

“Someone's…child it looks like?” The first passenger whistles to his companion.

“The tits on her and barely half my height! Her poor father! He must be having fits every time she walks out the house!”

“No dumbasses,” snorts a third, puffing away on her pipe, thick rich smoke curling over her head. “That's a _lady_ Dwarf.”

“OI! BIG GUY! LOOK OVER HERE! HEY! HEYYYYY!”

“Shit? I thought they had y’know…beards…”

“Well, that's racist. _And_ probably sexist.”

“But that's what I heard!”

“BRONTO’S SCALY NUTSACK! LOOK THIS WAY YA BIG OAF!”

And then something hits him, Sten of the Beresaad, square in the face.

“Ughhhhhh,” he wipes at the...custard on his face and sees a sweet roll at his feet. Based on the trajectory of the throw, and the force it hit him with…

His breath catches in his chest.

“YOU’RE NOT GUNNA SAY GOODBYE?” Harlow Brosca stands at the end of the pier, effectively startling all of the people around her with her loudness. She’s dressed in her training clothes of a worn, too big shirt and tight leggings, the only addition being a swath of bandages around her middle. She has her hands cupped over her mouth, so the sound will carry farther, but he doubts that is necessary. She’s the loudest thing in all of Thedas. She smiles at him and waves one of her hands. “ASSHOLE!”

He does not have to cup his hands to be heard.

“HOW? HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE?” Don't let it be a dream. Don't let this be a demon's trick either. He wishes the damn ship wasn't so fast or he'd jumped into the water to check himself.

“MORGAN! REMEMBER HOW SHE LEFT? SHE DID SOMETHING! SOMETHING DANGEROUS!” His skin prickles with the unease he always feels with magic and at the thought of more harm coming to her. No matter how well intentioned. “I DON'T KNOW WHAT, BUT IT WORKED! HAVE TO FIND HER! XIANDI’S ALREADY ON IT!”

“OKAY!” He doesn't know what else to say as she gets smaller as the distance between them grows. He says the only thing he wants to say. Needs to say. What will be true. “I'LL COME BACK TO YOU!”

She throws her head back and laughs in the strong sun of noontime, dark skin glowing under the strong rays, and it is a sight he won't forget.

“I SHOULD HOPE FUCKING SO!”

And she waves, jumping up and down as his ship continues its trek to his homeland. Doesn't leave the dock as other loved ones do, even when she's pretty sure he can no longer see her.

She puts her hands on her hips, and touches her chest right where her heart thumps, a new tell, Asala humming on her back.

Finally, finally at home.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my answer to a troubling lack of Sten fics (like whaaaaat, have you seen this magnificent bastard, _terrible_ ), Dwarf lead fics (shout-out to my short self-indulgent peeps), and a gateway into the weird DA universe that my friends and I dabble in. Hope you enjoyed the ride!


End file.
